Thursday, 23 January 2014

Stomach tingling,
excitement whirled inside of me. His hands felt firm on my waist. Firm, yet
safe somehow. Deep hazel eyes glared into mine. They twinkled like the flashes
of the spectator’s cameras, all waiting for the perfect shot. I didn’t look at
them – couldn’t take my eyes off of his. His lips parted into a crooked smile
and I felt my cheeks flush crimson as he held me close. My head fit into his
chest and, in that moment, nothing else seemed to matter. I forgot about the looming
coursework and jobs applications. I forgot about trying to balance two jobs in
a desperate attempt to dig up money to pay the rent. I forgot about the never-ending
questions and countless decisions I was forced to make. His familiar scent
lingered on my skin long after we’d finished dancing.

***

He still
smelt the same, a faint mix of vanilla and autumn leaves. Wrinkles were carved
into his face, each telling a different story, a new tale – one I’d never been
a part of. His eyes flashed through mine, but they didn’t look at me the way
they used too. The longing was gone. He just passed by, cane tapping the ground
like his dancing shoes used to all those years ago. A pang struck at my heart.
I missed those days. But, I walked on, syncing the tapping of my own walking
stick with his. Time changes everything.

Friday, 3 January 2014

Damn you
thighs. I tried hovering my legs above the ground slightly. Anything to make
them look thinner. Anything to stop them from expanding the way they always
seemed to, anything to stop the repulsive fat from spilling over onto the bench
of the bus stop. As I caught the crimson stain on my faded jeans, I watched it
grow bigger before my very eyes, just like the insecurity, the self-consciousness
that invaded me every day, strangled my happiness, trapped my freedom. My hand
found a rip in the denim, shielding my pale skin from the autumn wind. Countless
cars were at a standstill on the road before me – rush hour, all the more pairs
of eyes, watching, staring, judging. I made an attempt to flatten out my hair, feeling
the harsh knots as my fingers got stuck in the curls. As I stood up to check
the time the next bus was coming, I made sure to suck in my stomach as far as
it would possibly go. It never went in far enough. Never as far as the other
girls. I envied their flat stomachs, their effortless abs. I noticed a boy
about my age sitting at the next bench over. Feeling his eyes pore through me,
I sat back down again. Cheeks burning, palms dampening, I ignored his gaze,
wishing more than anything that he’d stop staring. He didn’t. I could hear the
judgemental thoughts spinning around his mind; feel the disbelief in his eyes. I
brought my hand to my face, rubbing my eye as if to force back the tears that wanted
ever so desperately to dampen my cheeks. My bare eyelashes fluttered - I’d
forgotten I wasn’t wearing any makeup. Ashamed, I hung my head, going over
every flaw, every slight imperfection, jabbing an agonisingly large hole
through my already broken heart.

(Him)

Car
honks exploded from drivers that grew more and more frustrated at the lack of
movement on the road. I waited for the bus, tapping my foot on the ground to
count the seconds that went by. She was the only other person at the bus stop. It
was her shoes I saw first – original, quirky. As she stood up, I eyed her full
figure. A yawn escaped my mouth and tears blurred my vision. As I blinked them
away, I couldn’t help but stare. She was beautiful. The lack of colour in her
clothes was such a contrast to her pale face, her fair skin. It dazzled in the
late afternoon sunlight. She sat back down and my eyes followed the line of her
hips as I imagined the curves underneath the black leather jacket she wore. She
looked down as if in discomfort, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Not yet. My gaze
got lost in her curls, each strand of her chestnut hair hiding a different secret.
She looked like a girl who had many secrets, little things locked up inside –
things she never told anybody. The lack of makeup on her face was surprising,
yet refreshing. She stood out from the girls with carrot-like skin and eyes
that were painted so black they looked burnt. She’d stand out anyway. There was
a sense of uniqueness about her, something that made me desperate to initiate
conversation, but something that trapped the words in my throat at the same
time. Eyeing her jeans, I admired the rips and tears – they symbolised
adventure, spontaneity. As I watched on, I could feel her trembling. The slight
glimmer of a single teardrop forming in her eyes caused mine to find the ground
again. She didn’t look at herself with pride. And, for just a brief second, I
was overwhelmed with the wish that she could one day see herself the very same
way I saw her.